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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818300">Wet Dreams</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmamThot/pseuds/OmamThot'>OmamThot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, F/M, Light Bondage, Masturbation, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Rape/Non-con Elements</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:53:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,505</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmamThot/pseuds/OmamThot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Geralt ends up being sexually tormented by dryads.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dryads/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Wet Dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He laid prone on the moss, a knee pinning down his healthy shoulder. The knife pressed against the side of his throat, and the half a dozen arrows he knew were aimed at him did the rest. He was profoundly naked, his muscled body on display, covered in scars accrued over the better part of a century.</p><p>He had ceased resisting as soon as they got him on the ground, knowing that with his heavy limp, useless arm and lack of any sort of weaponry it would be completely useless. This time he had got out of the cave and some fifty yards out of its mouth before his guard had woken and noticed him missing.</p><p>They had no actual trouble tracking him, whether it was due to the clinging smell of conynhaela and knitbone or his pale skin and white hair that he couldn’t properly camouflage since the only ones wearing proper clothes were Scoia’tael and the queen of the dryads. Not that he could fit into any of the dryad clothes, even if he found some unattended.</p><p>The green body paint the dryads wore would have been useful, but they hadn’t exactly left any bowls of the finished preparation where he could reach.</p><p>“Again, Gwynnbleidd?”</p><p>“Again, Lady Eithné.”</p><p>“How many times do we have to do this? Could you not just promise to wait until you’ve healed? You keep placing me in a very difficult position.”</p><p>“As do you, Lady Eithné. We both know people dear to me are in danger. I can’t stay.”</p><p>“And we both know, Gwynbleidd, that you are in no position to help anyone yet. Doing this squanders the sacrifices made to save your life. By people you’re dear to.”</p><p>“Maybe so, but my conscience doesn’t let me sit idle while I don’t know whether they’re alive, dead or dying. I cannot make that promise.”</p><p>Eithné sighed. “Help him up.”</p><p>He was hoisted up by several pairs of hands. He winced, it was definitely true that he did himself no favors by straining his healing wounds this early. Especially since parts of his shoulder, arm and leg were laced with plant roots, meant to reach the broken bones and help knit them back together.</p><p>Eithné was ethereally radiant, as always. Unlike the other dryads, whose coverings were threadbare and mostly utilitarian, she wore a silver dress, with side slits that ran almost all the way to her waist. It covered very little of her torso too, tapering into a dainty halter. Vine straps ran down her arms, adorned with flowers, and she wore a crown of branches.</p><p>Her hair was white, like his, though downright silvery, almost glowing in the gloom of the forest canopy. Her silver eyes glared at him, though he felt he could see a hint of sadness in them.</p><p>“This cannot go on. You will not heal, and eventually someone’s nerves will not hold and you’ll be hurt further. If you won’t promise, I will have to find another way to make you stay put.”</p><p>Her eyes wandered. He was used to being devoured like this, but usually it didn’t involve a royal audience.</p><p>“I know only one way to make you stay put, Gwynbleidd. You couldn’t give Morénn a child, but it didn’t stop you two from trying. Vigorously.” She smiled wanly.</p><p>The memory surfaced unexpectedly. Despite the mutual passion it had involved, it was a painful recollection. Especially since her death had weighed heavily on Eithné. He wasn’t sure why she had chosen to mention this. In his mind, she had always resented him for letting down his daughter. For sharing blood with the men that invaded Brokilon and caused her death.</p><p>Her eyes were cold, but they had looked so even decades ago.</p><p>“You may be sterile, Witcher, and such men are useless to dryads. But there is another use for you. Your presence has caused much ire, not to mention your pointless escape attempts.”</p><p>She raised her voice. “The fight needs to be squeezed out of you!”</p><p>She grabbed a hold of his nipple and squeezed surprisingly gently, and continued, “so I will allow my daughters to vent their frustrations on you.”</p><p>She turned to the gathered dryads. “Any who desire to show him his place may do so, at the discretion of Aglais. No harm may befall him, for this punishment is for the benefit of his healing.”</p><p>“Whoah, I think this is way out of proportion, Lady Eithné!”</p><p>The cold eyes stared at him. She shook her head and walked away.</p><p>The dryads around him sneered. Hands grabbed hold of him, carried him bodily into the cave.</p><p><br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
</p><p>He groaned as the tongue danced on the underside of his glans, moving left and right under the foreskin, flicking the frenulum each time it passed. Occasionally slender fingers pulled the skin back entirely, and soft lips clamped down behind his glans. It felt like the mouth was trying to suck it off entirely, only to let it go with a loud smack and resume licking.</p><p>He had woken up to his penis hardening in the warm, wet mouth of one of the trio. They took turns, relentlessly tormenting his oversensitive knob. The dryad sucking him, the one whose hair burned with the intense tones of autumn, was the worst. She was tireless and had learned to read him expertly.</p><p>She had been keeping him on the edge for minutes, slowly bringing him closer and closer to release. He was so damnably near ejaculation, but he knew that wouldn’t be happening. Not yet at least. He closed his eyes, he didn’t want to see the sadistic fire burning in their eyes.</p><p>A wet pop announced the temporary freedom of his glans. The dryad smacked her lips, her mouth was frothing from the mixture of drool and precome.</p><p>“Now,” she instructed her sisters.</p><p>A pair of mouths closed on his nipples, the one on the left nibbling and tugging on it with her teeth, the one on the right tugging on it like it was a teat. Fingers snaked from behind into the cleft of his cheeks and rubbed at his asshole.</p><p>His aching hardon clenched, he was desperately close. It smacked against his belly as the teeth on his nipples bit down exceptionally hard. His breath was coming in ragged, belabored gasps. The firehaired dryad pounced on his sack, sucking one of the swollen testicles into her mouth, trying to tug his penis downwards.</p><p>“Please,” he croaked, “please, you’re killing me! Either let me rest or let me come!” He begged.</p><p>The mouths released his nipples, but the fingers redoubled their efforts and the one between his legs suddenly managed to fit his other testicle in her mouth as well. He opened his eyes in surprise, staring at his forlornly wagging length and the suddenly very rodent-like dryad. He didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry, but he fought to suppress both to not give them any more fuel than they already had.</p><p>“Should we?” Said the one to his right.</p><p>“Well, he’s been a good little puppy today, hasn’t he,” pondered the one to the left.</p><p>“I don’t know, he looks defiant to me.”</p><p>The firehair released his sack. “I’ve done all of the work. I want my treat.”</p><p>“Poor Gwynbleidd, you won’t get to rest after all,” cooed the dryad on the left and patted his cheek.</p><p>The middle dryad wiped her mouth, rose to her feet and spun around. She grasped his aching head and guided it to her slit, and slammed against his hip. He roared, savouring the hot, snug wetness as his weight swung back on the vines he was trussed in, retracting him a few inches, only for the pendulum to swing him back to the hilt.</p><p>“I’m going second,” said the left dryad.</p><p>The right one cursed. “Alright, but don’t let him get limp after the second orgasm this time.”</p><p>He felt pressure build in his lower body, he was about to come, he was about to finally-</p><p><br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
</p><p>She groaned torturously, she was about to shoot, but the buildup suddenly stopped and dissipated, as if blown away by the wind. Condwiramurs whined in desperation, her hands shot to her cock to finally send it over the edge. But there was only emptiness between her legs. Emptiness, and a sticky, hot mess. What happened to her... to her... penis?</p><p>She suddenly realized that she had woken up, she was lying in her bed in the tower of Inis Vitre. What the hell had she just dreamed? She searched her still foggy memory. Ah, Geralt of Rivia’s convalescence in Brokilon.</p><p>But surely it couldn’t have went that way? Could it? She wasn’t sure how she could explain this dream to Nimue. Or if she would. Yes, Nimue didn’t have to know about all of the misses. But she could worry about it later. It was still a bit early. Her fingers snuck between her legs, rubbed the stickiness into each other, and dove into her folds.</p>
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